All in White
by colourmehappy
Summary: 'She is all in white, yet to him she has never looked more vibrant.'


All in White

Spoilers for the season 1 finale.  
Annie/Jeff  
Annie/Other (implied)  
The xx - Angels  
My first community fic. My characterisation needs work, and so does my writing skill, so feel free to give feedback to help me improve. I didn't plan to write for this fandom. Ever. I feel way out of my depth normally, but this was definitely the hardest thing I have ever had to write. Also, excuse any spellings like 'colour', I'm a Brit.

* * *

She is all in white, yet to him she has never looked more vibrant. She is iridescent in the pale of the moonlight. It is like he is finally seeing in colour. The backdrop of the balcony, and the surrounding gardens blur into the shadows.

It is just her he sees.

He takes a moment, rests a shoulder on the frame of the door way. Whilst he has grown over the years of being at Greendale, he hasn't completely become a monster: he left his suit jacket horizontally folded over the back of his chair. For this fleeting moment though he will quite happily dirty his shirt. (It is a small price to pay, he thinks).

She turns to him.

Behind him, through the glass of the doors, she sees the wedding reception in full swing. The constant ebb and flow of the guests, the darting servers, and the wild gesturing of those on the dance floor. Perpetual movement. Everything churning towards her newly affirmed future.

She can hear the occasional outburst of laughter, and the gentle pangs of the band filtering through. (Let's be honest, she was never going to hire some cheesy DJ for this day). Tonight was exactly how she had planned it, down to the very last detail.

But out here, as she focuses only on him, it is still in the silence. Time has paused for them.

They step towards each other. And at that moment she becomes aware of the song that dances through the air. The soft harmony whispers around them. She thinks of Abed, and how we would compare the coincidental timing with one of the movies she likes. But this isn't a clichéd romantic movie moment. This is happening, and she cannot help but feel overwhelmed.

"May I have this dance?"

"Mi-lord." She takes his offered hand. Palm to palm; fingers interlinked, intertwined, he draws her into him. It's not a cold night, but she seeks out his warmth, and easily slips further into his embrace.

She is immediately taken back to the night on the steps of the 'Tranny Dance'. She feels the same irrevocable pull of him. _How far they have come. _

He envelops her in strong arms, lips to temple. Barely a breath between them.

She inhales deeply, lungs filled with the scent of him. One so familiar to her, so attached to some of her most happiest, and at the very least some of the quirkiest, memories. It is hard for the emotion not to swell within her. She closes her eyes to it all, and pushes it back down. She promised herself she wouldn't cry today. (She doesn't want to smudge her make up, and tonight is going to be perfect. It has to be: this is everything she has ever wanted, right?).

They aren't dancing. They are absorbing one another. It is just them.

She has not had a moment alone all day, her own doing admittedly. It is the sole reason she is out on the balcony. Now she needed air; to have a few minutes to herself before she had to return to the pageantry, and take to the floor for her first dance as Mrs -

"You look beautiful Annie." He breaks the silence, voice barely above a whisper, raspy with emotion, pulling her out of her thoughts. "I never got the chance to tell you earlier, I'm sorry." He smiles down at her, eyes shining.

Through lashes, she meets his gaze. Her lips part, and a light pink blush blossoms across her delicate cheeks. She notes that even after so many years, he can still effect her with the smallest of compliments, and gestures. She's not willing to break the moment yet, so she does not say anything, just fists her hands into his shirt and buries her face along with them.

The song is reaching its conclusion. Their dance has finished. She knows, and he knows, that once they step back through the french doors, and enter the cloud of chatter and music, lose themselves in the company of acquaintances and distant family members, and even those who love them, that they will not get this opportunity to be alone together again.

In this moment she is his, and she is perfect.

He has always been an exceptional liar, he makes his living from it, but lying to himself about being okay now seems like the impossible.

He is not quite ready to let go of her hand yet; cannot bear to let her slip through his fingers.

She already has.

He still loves her.


End file.
